


Hate is a Strong Word (But Not Strong Enough)

by orphan_account



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Angry Sex, Explicit Language, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-05 10:07:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3116144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s mad, Paul thinks. We both are. We’re both fuckin’ <i>lunatics</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hate is a Strong Word (But Not Strong Enough)

**Author's Note:**

> Is it a bad thing that I find sexual tension in everything? Probably. Will I cease doing so? Nope.
> 
> Slight inspiration credit does go to tumblr user imaginebeatles who wrote a fic similar to this. I wouldn’t say I was influenced by her fic “[It’s a Thin Line](http://imaginebeatles.tumblr.com/post/80449881414/its-a-thin-line)"  
> per se, but I definitely had it in mind when I began writing this, so if there are any similarities I hope nobody gets mad at me. (Also she is pretty cool so read her stuff ok)
> 
> This fic is basically a piece of shit. I just like it, is all.

 

_“Paul had been relegated to the piano at the side of the stage, and as his frustration built, he started lobbing insults at the bass player standing a few feet away. Stu, smaller and more gentle-natured than the rest, at first ignored the abuse. But as Paul’s commentary grew louder and more bitter, his face reddened. When Paul tossed Astrid’s name into the mix, the blood drained from Stu’s cheeks. He stripped off his bass, hurled his slim body at Paul, and smacked him so hard across the face that they both fell on the stage. They went at each other with shocking violence, a rolling windmill of punches and kicks that ended only when the song had finally ended and John, George, and Pete could pull their bandmates apart.”_

— _Paul McCartney: A Life_ , Peter Ames Carlin

* * *

 

Paul fucking hates Stu. He hates him with everything he is.

Paul hates that John likes Stu better than him. Fucking Stu, with his fancy art skills and cheekbones and dark hair and wild eyes. Stu can’t play the bass to save his life, and Paul hates that John lets him stay in the band, just because John’s so bloody wrapped up in the idea of having a cool art school friend who’s actually his age to stop and realize how terrible Stu really is. Paul can play the bass better than Stu can, for Christ’s sake.

Paul has made it clear how much he hates Stu. John doesn’t care; he thinks Stu’s the bloody cat’s pajamas. Never mind what little baby Paulie thinks. John doesn’t seem to realize that for their group to _get_ anywhere, they have to be _good_. A shitty bassist is no way to accomplish that.

The good thing is that Stu hates Paul back. Strangely, Paul gets a great deal of satisfaction out of harassing Stu and getting an angry response in return. He _likes_ fighting with Stu. He likes seeing Stu’s face get red and his eyes narrow and his nostrils flare. Stu’s a bloody idiot, but he’s great if you’re in the mood for a row.

He’s even better if you’re in the mood for a fight. Stu has no reservations when it comes to beating down on Paul. Neither of them is incredibly strong or skilled, but they both like bloodying the other’s face a bit from time to time. It doesn’t quite make any sense, if Paul thinks about it—he’s doesn’t particularly _like_ having a black eye or a split lip for a week. But he doesn’t really stop and think when it comes to fighting with Stu. It’s _natural_. It makes John crazy, how much the two of them fight. “You’re both fuckin’ idiots, now stop goin’ at it like an old married couple. _Jesus_.”

But on one particular day, something changes—and it is, in all honesty, Paul’s fault. He’s being a right bastard, whispering things at Stu— _onstage_ , even, _Christ_ , that’s low—and finally, _finally_ , after years of harassment, Stu seems to snap. He throws down his bass—“no way to treat your guitar,” Paul says, right before Stu socks him—and attacks Paul right at the piano; knocks him down and fucking climbs over him, beating on any skin he can reach, and Paul struggles against him until the song finishes and George is pulling Stu away and John is screaming at them to get out.

“You’re such a fuckin’ _cunt_ ,” Stu snarls. “Why’ve you got such a fuckin’ _problem_ with me? What the fuck did I ever do to you, huh? Fuckin’ _twat_.” Stu is struggling against George, who must be having a difficult time reining him back, given his size.

“Shut the _fuck_ up, Stu!” Paul is practically spitting. “Why are you even here? You don’t _do_ anything, you just _waste time_ , you’re a wasted of fuckin’ _space_!” John jerks Paul back by the arm.

“You’re ruinin’ this fuckin’ gig, both of you!” John hisses. “If I see either of you on each other again I’ll kill the lot of you, got that?” With that, John shoves them into the hallway backstage and slams the door shut. “Fuckin’ _arseholes_ ,” he mutters.

Stu’s cheek is cut and Paul’s knuckles sting and his split lip is throbbing and his entire body is thrumming with adrenaline and nothing makes sense except for how much he _hates_ Stu. Stu grabs him by the collar and shoves him against the wall, his nose inches from Paul’s. “Why don’t you stop being such a little _bitch_ all the time? You’re so fucking jealous of me. You think you’ve got some sort of claim on John, don’t you? Like you’re the _special_ one, and whenever you’re around John should just drop everything to adore you, is that what you want?”

“Piss off, fuckin’ cocksucker.”

Stu makes a face that looks positively monstrous and forces Paul against the wall again. “I’m so fucking done with your shit, McCartney. Everything is a fucking power play with you, _everything_.” His face is so close. “You just want to _own_ everyone, don’t you?”

With his heart beating as fast as it is, thinking becomes impossible. All Paul can do is feel.

Stu’s breath, hot against Paul’s mouth.

Stu’s lips, cracked and red.

Stu’s leg, pressed up against him.

Hard.

“Get the fuck off,” Paul hisses.

“You’re just a fucking whiny little princess who’s so fucking shoved up his own arse to realize he’s not the only person living on this goddamn planet.”

Paul thinks he must be imagining it.

But there is an unmistakable hardness on his thigh, and Stu’s eyes are burning with something he’s never seen before. Paul is disgusted. He’s never hated Stu more, bloody fucking Stu— _queer_ Stu, apparently. Paul wants to beat the sense into him, to claw down his back and shove him down and bite and bruise and _own_ , and…

Paul isn’t imagining it.

Stu is looking at Paul with a furious lust that should have scared him if he wasn’t so damn intoxicated. He watches Stu wet his lips, and feels smug. Paul isn’t going to give him what he wants, the queer bastard. Paul is going to fucking _starve_ him, if _this_ is what gets him going; Paul's going to hold it over his head forever. Then Stu will know who’s in charge here.

Stu’s eyes dart down to Paul’s mouth for a split second, and Paul knows it’s working.

Unless.

Unless Stu kisses him. But—he wouldn’t. Would he? He’s always been a coward, Paul thinks. He _wouldn’t_. Paul would never live it down if he did. He can’t have _Stuart_ kissing _him_.

So Paul reaches out, grabs the back of Stu’s neck, and shoves their mouths together as brutally as he possibly can. It’s the kind of kiss that’s meant to hurt, meant to leave their lips throbbing and raw and bruised. Stu’s thoughts seem to instantly synchronize with Paul’s, his tongue fighting for control. Paul tastes blood, unable to tell if it’s his or Stu’s.

He’s mad, Paul thinks. We both are. We’re both fuckin’ _lunatics_.

Stu pushes him off, gasping. “You’re such a prick,” he growls. “You can’t just _do_ that and expect to get away with it.”

“I’m going to fuck you,” Paul responds, before he can stop himself. He hadn’t meant to say that, hadn’t planned it, but the second he hears it, he knows it’s true. Stu’s eyes widen for the tiniest second before he thrusts against Paul and weaves fingers through his hair.

“Did you ever think, you little bastard, that not everything’s about you?” Stu’s voice is quiet and harsh. Paul barely hears him—all he can feel is the rough, painful crush of Stu against him, and he only has one thought in his mind: _more._

“I’m going fuck you _so hard_ , Stu, you’re going to be _screaming_. I swear to God you’re not going to be able to walk straight for a week.” Paul wants to do it, too. He wants to hurt him. He wants to mark him. Fuck, why are they still wearing clothes?

“When’s the gig over?” he breathes, glaring down as Stu’s mouth gets annoyingly close to his own. Stu is not going to kiss him. Stu is not going to _initiate_. That is not how this is going to work. Paul moves his head back slightly, and Stu stops, looking at him with dark eyes. “How long have we got?”

“Fuck if I know,” Stu responds, and bites Paul’s lip.

They’ve been living in the dressing room backstage, sleeping on the bunk-beds pushed to the back. Stu manhandles him inside and slams the door—which doesn’t lock—and before he can force Paul into anything else, Paul sticks his tongue down Stu’s throat.

They battle for dominance for a moment before Stu submits—Paul feels victorious for a second, before realizing Stu had only surrendered to rip off Paul’s shirt. “Fuck off, arsehole, I can do it meself,” Paul growls, stripping off his leathers as Stu does the same.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t count on it,” Stu replies, and pushes Paul onto the bed without another word.

Stu is on top of him now, grinding their cocks together roughly without a moment of hesitation, pinning Paul’s arms down and breathing heavily. Paul barely gets the chance to revel in the new sensation—touching another bloke’s…Christ—before Stu interrupts his concentration. “I’m going to fuck _you_ ,” Stu says softly, his eyes wild, intoxicating. “Did that even cross your mind, McCartney? That you wouldn’t be the fucking king of the world for once? That I could do that to you?”

Paul tries to push him off, glaring. “No way. Fuck off, Stu, seriously—” Stu thrusts against him again and his protest turns into a low groan. “Don’t you dare,” he rumbles when Stu reaches toward his underwear. “I will fuckin’ _kill_ you, I swear to God—”

Stu leans down and bites at Paul’s neck, silencing him. “Shut it, you _prick_.” Then, softer, “You can do me afterward.”

Paul stops at that. His voice is hoarse when he says, “Does it hurt?”

Stu looks down at him, grinning. “Only if you want it to.” When Paul doesn’t answer, he leans in and says, “Do you want it to?”

Paul can barely breathe. He nods.

It’s nothing like Paul would have thought. He thought he’d hate it, having Stu inside him, holding him down—and he probably would, if it felt anything like possession. If Stu felt what Paul feels when he’s inside someone, Paul would shove him off the second he got in. It would feel like submission, if Stu wasn’t groaning so much. But Paul feels empowered with each sound that comes from Stu, and he finds himself moving in time with his thrusts, fighting back a laugh when Stu comes with a harsh gasp, and falls still.

Stu narrows his eyes. “What’re you fuckin’ laughing at?” He grabs Paul’s head and lifts it until their noses are just barely touching. “You think that was some victory over me? Really?” Stu finds Paul’s cock and squeezes. Paul gasps and clenches his hands into fists. “You’re mine. Hear me?” His thumb grazes over the weeping head of Paul’s cock, the lightest of touches. Paul holds back a whimper.

“Stu…”

“No, shut up, Paul. You’re going to remember this. You’re going to remember the day you realized you’re never going to own me. _You’re mine_ , Paul.” Stu leans down and scrapes his teeth against Paul’s jaw, stroking Paul’s cock slowly and tightly. Paul stays quiet, trying desperately not to thrust up into Stu’s hand, knowing if he opens his mouth he’ll betray himself. But he’s so achingly hard, his heart beating so fast it hurts, and he wants to fuck Stu more than ever.

He draws in a shuddering breath. “You said I could—”

“Shhh, you will. God, you’re needy, aren’t you?” Stu grins. “You need me.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Paul hisses.

“Yeah, that’s what you need, isn’t it? You _need_ to own me, you _need_ to feel like you’re the powerful one. Don’t you? Don’t you, Paul?” Stu leans down to brush his mouth against Paul’s, before sucking his bruised lower lip until it begins to throb. “Say it.”

“I’m going to fuck you…so hard,” Paul manages, breath catching as Stu licks down his torso.

“Not until you say it, you arrogant prick,” Stu growls. “You’re not fucking in charge anymore, you got that? You’re _mine_.”

Paul groans. “You’re such a bloody arsehole.”

“Mmm. And you want that arsehole, don’t you?” Stu traces a finger around the head of Paul’s cock, raising his eyebrows when Paul chokes on a moan. “ _So much_.” 

Paul struggles with himself valiantly for roughly another twenty seconds before he cries out, “I want it, I want it, oh my _God_ , just fuckin’ _let me!”_

Stu grins, but releases him. Paul feels delirious with relief at Stu’s submission, but angry at his own. “Cocksucker,” he adds harshly, just to regain an edge.

But Stu just looks him straight in the eye and says, “If you want me to be.” Paul doesn’t process what he means until Stu’s lips touch the head of his cock.

Paul’s body trembles with pleasure, but Paul’s brain recoils in horror. No, no—he doesn’t want— “Stu, don’t,” Paul says frantically, “that’s disgusting, you don’t— _oh, fuuuck_ …”

Stu smirks and bobs his head again, and Paul has lost any control he wished to gain. He finds his fingers clutching at the back of Stu’s head, unable to prevent the ecstatic tremors running through his body at the flicks of Stu’s tongue, the growing suction of his cheeks. “Fuck, fuck, _Jesus fuck_ ,” Paul gasps. “Stop, stop, you said—you _said_ —”

Stu looks up at him with wide, provocative eyes, and raises his eyebrows questioningly. “ _Stu_ ,” Paul tries, but he sees the smile in the Stu’s eyes. Stu swipes his tongue over the head once more before hollowing his cheeks and taking Paul in all the way like an expert, staring straight up at him, and Paul just gapes, watching himself slide between Stu’s swollen lips.

And Paul’s nearly ready to let go, just let Stu take him and take him, but that’s not what he wants. It’s not…

Paul tightens his grip on Stu’s hair, and he feels Stu flinch. Paul tugs, and Stu releases him, his cock springing from Stu’s mouth with a filthy popping noise. Stu just watches him, a small smirk in his eyes.

Paul licks his bruised lips, pushing Stu’s head back onto the bed firmly. “I…” He takes a breath, trying to calm himself, and says, determined, “I’m going to _fuck_ you.”

Stu just lies there, mouth red and slightly parted, bruises already forming on his face, and looks at him as if to say, _well? I’m here. Go on… take it. Take me._

Paul does. He presses at Stu’s chest, scratching lightly down his pectorals, trying to prepare himself. He lifts Stu’s legs up, parts them, shuddering with disgust and awe when he sees that dark place between; strokes down his perineum with a trembling finger. Paul hears him sigh softly, and realizes that Stu’s already hard again.

I did that to you, Paul thinks. _Christ_ , Paul has to have him _._ Paul strokes lube onto himself and, after a moment of mental preparation, begins to slide himself in. He does it impossibly slow, biting his tongue, refusing to look at Stu. Get it under control, he tells himself. But it’s easier said than done, knowing what’s about to happen.

“ _Do_ it.”

Paul just breathes, in and out through his nose, clenching and unclenching his jaw. Do it, do it, what are you waiting for? He waits longer.

“Are you scared?” Stu whispers, and Paul whips his head up.

“Fuck off,” Paul says, and rolls his hips, and oh _God_ , it’s better than he’d thought—but why, why is it better, when it’s just Stu? Christ, it’s _Stu_ , wrapped around him like a fucking girl, spread shamelessly wide. He does it again, deeper, and the smug expression melts off Stu’s face.

And something connects in Paul’s brain and he needs it, he needs Stu to get off from this, needs him to break apart, needs to _feel_ it. He grabs Stu’s thighs and shoves them further apart, squeezing, and just starts, building up a rhythm. He listens to Stu’s breath catch, watches his mouth open, so intent on getting a rise out of him that Paul almost forgets to enjoy it.

He forces himself deeper, his entire body beginning to burn with pleasure.When he finally hears Stu moan he moans back, unable to stop, and suddenly both of their composures are broken and all Paul and Stu want is release.

Paul’s more than happy to give it to him. The sound of them fills his ears, Stu’s hushed “yeah, yeah, yeah”s and his own string of curses, repeated over and over as they crush themselves together in a wild harmony.

Then Paul hears a strange noise, not coming from either of them, and he falters. He doesn’t want to break concentration, wants to keep driving Stu into the mattress, but he forces himself to look up.

Paul freezes. Stu growls against him, nails digging into his back. “Fuckin’ _hurry up_ , you fuckin’—”

“George,” Paul croaks, and Stu silences, craning his neck back to glimpse the skinny boy in leathers looking at them from the door with wide, astonished eyes.

George raises his eyebrows at them, and to Paul’s amazement (or is it dismay?) George presses his lips together and barely stifles a laugh. “Go on then, Paul, keep buggering him, I think he wants you to…”

Paul glances down at Stu for a split second, paralyzed with shock and embarrassment. Stu looks back up at Paul with a glare that says _how useless are you?_ and says, without breaking eye contact, “Hey, George?”

“Yeah, Stu?”

“ _Fuck. Off_.”

“Yeah, all right,” George says, clearly trying not to laugh. He closes the door behind him, but not before he makes a crude gesture at Paul and grins devilishly. Paul can feel his mouth hanging open uselessly, but he can’t quite figure out what to do about it.

“Oh, look at that,” Stu says drily, reaching up to brush a rough thumb against Paul’s chest. “Your nipples turn pink when you’re embarrassed. How _adorable._ ”

That gets him back on track. Paul nips at Stu’s collarbone and thrusts, long and deep, and Stu throws his head back, cursing, arching his back up to meet Paul’s thrusts. Paul can’t get enough, wants to keep going and going forever, wants to keep being the reason for Stu’s undoing, _him_ , and all he can hear is his and Stu’s breath mingling together, forcing each other closer with every motion, _desperate_ for it, until Paul rolls his hips one more time and Stu gasps and comes abruptly, and the sight of it brings Paul over the edge as well. He pulls out without thinking, coming in two long spurts onto Stu’s chest.

“Ah… _fuuuck_ ,” he hisses, flinching at the contact.

Paul glances down at Stu, who looks positively wrecked, lying there. Hair a mess, dried blood on his cheek where Paul punched him, stripes of come all down his chest, his legs sprawled obscenely wide.

Paul inhales deeply, trying to steady his breathing. His body is buzzing from his orgasm, his limbs exhausted. The room smells like sex, something the others are bound to notice when they get back. “They’ll be out getting drinks,” he says, as casually as he can. His voice still shakes a bit. He cleans himself off and quickly reapplies his clothes, straightening them as much as he can, suddenly nervous. “You coming?”

Stu just lies there, sleepy, chest rising and falling, pale and lethargic and strangely beautiful. Paul can’t seem to pull his gaze away. “You go, I don’t care,” Stu says, as if everything is completely normal, as if he weren’t covered in Paul’s come, as if they hadn’t just— _God_. He reaches a long arm down to the floor under the bed, where they’ve been keeping cigarettes. He lights one and takes a drag. “I’m staying.”

Inexplicably, Paul has the urge to stay with him, to look at Stu more, figure him out, figure out what just happened and _why_ , but Stu looks up at him, frowning, and says, “Go on, fuckin’ leave. Someone’s gotta tell Harrison not to spill.”

“Yeah,” Paul agrees dumbly, heading for the door. It seems to be the end of that conversation, but it doesn’t feel right to leave it at that. “See you, then.”

Stu groans loudly, a puff of smoke coming from him. “Oh, _God_ , please tell me you’re not going to be a fuckin’ girl about this. Don’t be such a pussy, all right? It’s just sex. Fuck off.”

“Oh… _fine_ ,” Paul says, almost grateful that something feels normal. “Fuckin’ clean yourself off, will you? You look like a whore.” Paul slams the door before he can say anything else, but he thinks he hears Stu laugh.

When Paul gets to the bar, George sidles up beside him. “So,” he says, grinning. “Gonna kiss and tell?”

Paul glares at him. “We didn’t kiss. Shut up!”

George rolls his eyes. “ _You_ shut up. Look at your fuckin’ mouth, mate. You kissed… if not more than that.”

“We didn’t… _he_ did the more than that, not—”

“There you are,” John says, making Paul jump. “Got everything all under control now, have we?” Paul nods quickly. “Good—it’d better not happen again.” John hands both of them a pint of beer, giving Paul a once-over that makes his stomach twist. “Where’s Stu? What, did you fuck him up that bad?”

George nearly bursts into laughter at that, but Paul elbows him in the ribs and he keeps quiet. “He stayed back. Didn’t want t’go out tonight.”

John shrugs. “Whatever. He can share my bird if I can find one.” Almost on cue, John seems to catch the eye of a girl behind Paul. “ _There_ we go,” he mutters, pushing past them. “The _tits_ on her…”

Paul watches him leave before rounding on George. “Don’t you dare breathe a word of this to him.”

George rolls his eyes. “I’m not gonna tell John you fucked his best mate. He’d kill both of you.”

“Promise,” Paul insists.

“That what you said to Stu? When he took your precious virginity?” George asks, teasing.

“ _What?_ ” Paul’s voice rises half an octave.

“Yeah, yeah, I promise,” George says, laughing.

“How did you… When did you become such an expert, then?” Paul can’t believe how naturally George is taking this. He walked in on two of his _male_ friends fucking each other’s brains out. _Paul_ , for one, would be the slightest bit shocked.

“Oh, Paulie. You missed a lot in Hamburg, didn’t you?”

Apparently so. “You’re saying that wasn’t Stu’s first time with…”

George smirks. “No, definitely not the first time. They’ve got plenty of working lads there. He had quite a taste for them… if you know what I mean.”

“Did _you_?”

George flushes. “Just once. I didn’t like it.”

Paul thinks back to what he’d been doing less than an hour ago, the sweat and the heat and the rawness of it. “Why?”

“Well, I’m not a bloody queer, am I? Just wanted to try it out,” George says, finishing his beer.

“I’m not queer either.” It comes out too quick, defensive. George looks at him, noticing, but he shrugs.

“Doesn’t matter to me. Don’t think it matters to Stu, either.”

“I’m not, though,” Paul says, urgent. He’s not fucking _queer_ for _Stuart_. Jesus. The thought makes his blood boil. “I hate him.”

George raises an eyebrow. “Don’t think hate’s a strong enough word for whatever it is.”

Silently, Paul decides he agrees. 


End file.
